


Olympics

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: It's a cold rainy day in London when Aziraphale sees Crowley for the first time. Crowley racewalks towards Aziraphale and is ridiculous. Aziraphale likes it
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale usually drops Adam off at exactly seven o'clock in the morning. It's a routine and a saving grace, since both Aziraphale and Adam would go crazy if they don't follow their routine. It's been established, it works, it's fine. Aziraphale can't have a meltdown anymore but Adam would have one for both of them just fine. 

Ana greets them, Adam says his goodbye and runs off to play with his friends. Aziraphale goes back to his bookshop and a small old books restoration business he has on the side, or more accurately, in the backroom of his shop.

It's a good routine, as far as routines go. 

When Aziraphale found himself a guardian of his nephew, he was afraid that the baby would do everything to destroy his routine, but the baby has proved to be just as much of a sucker for a good routine. It's all just fine, you know, apart from the fact that Adam lost his parents and Aziraphale lost his sister and her adorable doofus of a husband. 

Aziraphale's sister Deidre was a lovely woman, and a fierce protector of her increasingly gay brother, not that anyone could be homophobic when faced with Aziraphale who looks like and totally is an angel. He has white curls, he has blue eyes, his smile can be used as a form of alternative energy and yes, his tea has to be exactly as he likes it, because he's a normal person, ok? It wouldn't ruin your world to abide by his opening hours and an unwillingness to tell what the best book by Oscar Wilde is. It's all of them, people! Is that so hard to understand?

In short, life is mostly alright, until one day Aziraphale is lingering by the daycare for some ineffable reason, and there's a young man in indecently tight pants and a bright pink top that expose him as a man who loves sports and does some. 

The man has red hair and sunglasses, because it's inadvisable to swim without appropriate eyewear and the current rain seems to send a message that all people are sinful land dwelling shits who could do much better underwater. The man racewalks, walk-walk-fashion-baby, hips swaying, legs for days, and behind him there's a gloomy boy with black hair and a huge umbrella. 

"Warlock!" The man calls. "We made it! They tried to stop us but they couldn't!"

At that the gloomy boy, Warlock, grins and tries to move past Ana with his open umbrella, of which Ana seems ignorant because she glares at the man. 

Aziraphale tries to remember why he has lingered. Certainly, he has an umbrella, but his shoes won't benefit from the flood, and… Why has he lingered? Must be those endless legs in those endlessly tight pants. 

Besides, Ana never glares. 

"Crowley, did you kidnap the ambassador's child?" She asks. 

"Kidnap!?" Crowley and Warlock say together. Warlock is stuck with his umbrella, and frankly, so is Ana, and everyone is getting wet and miserable. 

"I'll have you know that when this little hellspawn decided that he'd had enough of his mother's uterus, his mother and I were having non alcoholic mimosas and a nice lunch!" Crowley says. 

"Uncle Tony carried mom to the hospital!" Warlock informs. "It might have been the world record!"

"Unfortunately, carrying people in labour to the hospital isn't an Olympic event!" Crowley says. 

Aziraphale is getting wetter but it's nothing compared to the fact that Crowley is wetter than any fish at any given moment in any given sea. Aziraphale also has some sexy similes but he doesn't want to go there. 

The umbrella incident is resolved, Warlock waves to Crowley and joins the rest of the class. 

Very wet and sexy Crowley grins and turns to racewalk back from hence he came. 

"Ehm… Dear boy? Crowley?" Aziraphale calls. 

The man turns around to face Aziraphale. "Hello. Yes?"

"I have an umbrella." 

"You do," Crowley nods. "Cute one. Like you. All creamy and white."

"And you don't."

"Acute angel."

"Do you want to… share?" Aziraphale points at his umbrella. 

"No, I'm fine. I'm undefeatable!" And Crowley racewalks away. 

Aziraphale thinks that it's of no importance until he sees Ana who's gloating and wet. 

"What?" Aziraphale asks. 

"Nothing. He's a good friend. Olympic champion, you know. World record, too. That man will walk 500 miles for you."

"Even 50 km racewalk is but meagre 31 miles," Aziraphale informs because he's a walking encyclopedia, not that he's walking right now. And now there's a song stuck in his head. The song is wearing tight sportswear and is a ginger. Fuck you, synesthesia!

You know this feeling when you gaze into the metaphorical cauldron of the day and out of the smoke and peculiar smell comes out something you didn't expect? A poet might call it an inspiration and an autistic poet might ask  _ what the fuck is that  _ and proceed to call it an inspiration. 

Aziraphale has a song stuck in his head and he has to do his job, so he's in a bit of a conundrum here. 

He heroically works for some time but then it's the hour of a cup of tea, so he uses Google to learn that indeed Crowley is a star athlete and that his feet are so peculiar that he's being paid to test some special footwear because he's so special.

Aziraphale huffs.

He also learns that Crowley has two mothers none of which has anything to do with sports. 

It's of no importance. 

Aziraphale resumes his work and strives through the day until the time comes to pick up Adam. He does notice that Warlock is picked up by a young and tired woman who has a few bodyguards and the American flag on the car. 

***

Crowley is the man of no easy ways. If there's a hard way, and there is always one, he'll take it without a second thought. If it means that he has to get Warlock to his daycare as a part of his morning practice, then so be it. Crowley needs an umbrella, preferably attached to the man of his dreams, not that Crowley dreams that often. It's a conundrum. He knows he'd walk 500 miles for that man and that's enough, besides it's motivating. 

It will do him no good to ponder over it because he's walking and entertaining Warlock who refuses to be entertained. He has stolen another huge umbrella from one of the security people and is proud of himself. Crowley can't help being worried about the quality of said security people if a five year old can steal their umbrellas without much fuss. It's not Crowley's business of course. 

He sees the man of his walking dreams standing by the entrance with an umbrella. Crowley takes a deep breath and sees Warlock safely in, then turns to the man. 

"Hello," Crowley says. He points at the sky. "That went down like a lead balloon."

Aziraphale looks up too and sees his umbrella. "I hope it didn't. Too dangerous." But he smiles and moves closer to shield Crowley from the rain. "Are you amphibian, dear boy? Do you have to stay wet?"

Crowley swoons. Maybe he sneezes but he tries to swoon. Bea will kill him for these wet walks and sneezing, but they are proud of him, he's their star, so maybe Crowley will get away with it. 

"Oh dear, how come you don't have an umbrella?"

"I am amphibian!" Crowley says proudly. And quacks. 

The man blushes. Crowley sneezes, shit, swoons. They stand under the rain for a few minutes, then Crowley racewalks away. 

Aziraphale sighs and goes to work. He thinks that he didn't tell Crowley his name, but… They'll meet again…

Something wet collides with Aziraphale and proves to be Crowley. 

"What's your name? Are you married? Do you fancy men?" 

Aziraphale does like when people state their intentions without making him try to figure them out on his own. 

"No, yes. Aziraphale."

"I'm not always wet!" Crowley promises. 

"What a disappointment, my dear." 

"I can be. Preferably in a bath. Would you like to have dinner with me? Maybe even in a bath? I'm flexible."

Aziraphale wants to purr, because Crowley does look deliciously flexible… Yes.

"How about lunch?" Aziraphale offers. 

"Any meal will do, if you're there."

"Well, then lunch."

Crowley racewalks away without asking for Aziraphale's phone number or address. Aziraphale sighs again and prepares for another wet collision, which inevitably comes. 

"Where?" Crowley asks. He racewalks without moving away. 

Aziraphale tells him the address of his shop. 

"I'll be there, angel!" Crowley promises. Aziraphale is wet too. Isn't it incredibly sexy, in a cold, peculiar sort of way?


	2. Chapter 2

One of the best parts of Crowley's career is that when he's in the heat of things, which unfortunately for him doesn't mean passionate sex in a wet bath with a wet angel, he can think clearly. His body finally gets the necessary overload of activity and moves on its own almost, grateful for a purpose, a reason. No one knows but when Crowley racewalks, his train of thought finally moves like a proper train and not like a rollercoaster that assures you that it will take you from A to B but takes you from A to B through Z… It's even impossible to explain without getting into trouble.

But when Crowley does, nay, walks his thing, his head is clear. He can think up entire novels to his heart's content or listen to Beethoven or multiply four digit numbers. He can't do it in the quiet and calm of his flat or an office or anywhere else. He's never nervous before a race, even if it's Olympics. His body knows what to do and when it does, it stops bothering his mind. 

All things considered, Crowley is too dreamy during his training session and his trainer notices it. 

"Cut the shit, Crowley, what is it?" Bea asks, barging into Crowley's flat after him and ignoring Crowley leaving a trace of wet clothes behind him. They have seen him naked. They are not impressed. 

"I'm having a lunch date!" Crowley says from the shower. 

"With a real human person and not an exhibit from the natural history museum?" Bea asks. 

"There are real human persons there as well!" Crowley lathers the shampoo fervently and applies it to his hair. 

"You pretended to date… some fossil."

"I didn't pretend. It was handsome. I didn't have anyone better at the moment. But it doesn't matter! I'm having a lunch date with a real human person!" 

Bea sits on the toilet and lights a cigarette. They're a trainer, not a saint. "Then do your armpits."

"I always do my armpits. Oh, cigarette!"

"You can't smoke. I smoke for you. And your soap smells like… everything." 

Crowley washes himself, Bea smokes. Eventually Bea decides that Crowley might need some date outfit suggestions and they retire to his bedroom and wardroom. 

When they come back Crowley is trying on his Olympic medals. Two golds, one bronze, three silvers. He tries them on all at once, then just the gold…

"You're not wearing your fucking trophies as jewelry!" Bea snaps. 

"Why not? It shows that I can provide!" Crowley, just so you know, is wearing his towel and nothing else. Apart from the medals.

"Provide what? A record breaking racewalk? Don't tell me you have a crush on one of the teammates…"

"No! No way. They can't multiply like I do! They don't invent stories when they compete!"

"That's my Crowley. So… Anyway, you're not wearing your medals. Try this!" Bea offers Crowley the following: black jeans, tight, so tight it's right, just as my autocorrect insists, a black jacket, with subtle sequins, so it's definitely not stolen from Elton John's garage sale, a sinful black henley (it's sinful because it's so tight it's right or vice versa), a silver scarf and red socks. Very sexy, as far as Bea is concerned. 

Crowley agrees once he puts everything on. His underpants are also red, by the way. He's a hopeful person. 

"I saw him by the daycare."

"Did you kidnap Warlock again?"

"I did not! It was a mutually convenient agreement! His bodyguards can't be stealth, can you believe it!"

"I can. They are idiots."

Crowley is ready. 

"Go and be awesome. Don't talk about maths."

Crowley loves Bea, but he can't comprehend how anyone can fail to appreciate the eternal beauty of mathematical operations. 

He walks to Aziraphale, just walks, which in his case is just sauntering. It's a short walk from Mayfair to Soho, but it's enough for Crowley to think up a story.

He imagines himself a frog, a cute thing with long legs and nice skin, and - and he's stuck in a nasty wet well - oh wait, if he's a frog he can't find a wet well nasty… But he's stuck there! And he'd love some sun, some human-shaped, blue-eyed sun with a halo of white hair and softness and…

Boom! It's Aziraphale's door, but Crowley hasn't finished yet! So he's stuck in a well and he wants some sun and Aziraphale is a prince and Aziraphale rescues him and Aziraphale…

Crowley knocks on the front door of an old bookshop, currently closed, but Crowley is hopeful. 

After a few moments of torturous waiting and lucid dreaming Aziraphale opens the door. 

"Dear boy! You're dry!"

"I knew I had to wear the medals!" Crowley replies.

"Oh, no, don't want any extra attention." Aziraphale winces and invites Crowley in. "I realised I don't know what you can eat…"

"I can eat anything! Especially with you! In small doses."

"Do you like Chinese? Would you like some tea?"

They agree to order some Chinese and have some tea. 

The food is delicious, although it's mostly Aziraphale who eats it. Even Crowley's. Aziraphale looks so good when he's eating that Crowley has two ongoing romances in his head - one is a dark story with indecent amounts of sex and the other is a cute soft story with indecent amounts of sex. You get the idea. 

"My dear, how come you can resist those dumplings?" Aziraphale asks. He looks at Crowley and gets even softer because Crowley is failing at using an armchair but he seems so relaxed and comfortable, he smiles, and his smile is sharp like the rest of him. He doesn't resemble a dumpling but Aziraphale can't resist him all the same. 

Crowley meanwhile is debating whether it's ok to tell Aziraphale that he looks more delicious than any dumpling, including the platonic ideal of one. Bugger all.

"You look sweeter than a dumpling," Crowley says dreamily. His light sensitive eyes are either in pain or just that smitten. 

"My dear, dumplings are not sweet." Aziraphale intends to chide playfully but he's just flirting like a dumpling. "There, have a taste." Aziraphale feeds Crowley a dumpling. 

Crowley obliges and eats the damn dumpling. "See, a total failure of a thing! You're sweeter."

"Makes sense," Aziraphale agrees. 

"You have a kid?" Crowley asks.

"Yes. Adam. He's my nephew. My sister died…"

Crowley's face falls and his hands lose any idea of what to do. "I'm sorry, angel…"

"It's… it's been…" Aziraphale is a bit lost. Actually, he's worried about his routine. It seldom gets disturbed by long-limbed Olympic champions. 

"It's… you… sorry I asked. Now I do feel like a frog!" Crowley waves his arms and tries to get up from the armchair, but Aziraphale is intrigued. He can't reject a frog. 

"And there's that fungal infection that practically kills frogs, did you know that? It's been discovered recently."

"That's awful!" Aziraphale needs some tea. Just in case a frog-killing fungal infection gets a hold of his date before things get interesting and hot and wet, he takes Crowley with him to the kitchen. They prepare wild berries tea and talk about frogs… Well, it's more like Crowley talks about frogs. 

"I tend to make stories. So I… when we met, you had that umbrella and I was wet, so I thought I was that miserable wet frog, which doesn't make any sense, because frogs shouldn't be miserable while wet, but then again, I wasn't miserable, I was just wet and you were there with that umbrella, and you were like… like a prince. You pulled me out of that well and offered me an umbrella. You cared about a frog!" 

"You have red hair. You're not a frog." Aziraphale blushes. Soon he'll have to go and pick Adam up. He'll have to be responsible and reliable - it doesn't have to contradict his frog rescuing missions, on the other hand. 

"No! Maybe I'm a prince too! I just… just need some tea!" Crowley ignores the heat of the cup and gulps half of it in one go. "And then I can be a prince too! Or a knight!"

"I'm quite alright with you being a frog, dear boy. You're charming and aware of fungal infections." But just in case Aziraphale leans in and kisses Crowley's cheek.

"I'm a frog," Crowley whispers. He stares at Aziraphale with longing and hope and blush. 

"A very handsome one too," Aziraphale whispers back. 

"Can I… will you let me be your… frog friend?"

"Please." Aziraphale kisses Crowley's cheek again. Perhaps it's a different one. Who cares. Do frogs have cheeks?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the waiting. Hope it's worth it.

There are more lunch dates and some matinees, both theatre and cinema. Crowley prefers cinema because theatre is too slow for him and clearly has fewer booms and busts and bangs and shebangs/hebangs/theybangs.

So Aziraphale can't be blamed for being shocked into an adorable and perfect  _ o  _ of his adorable and perfect mouth when it turns out Crowley can quote  _ all  _ of Shakespeare from any place - and he  _ can't  _ stop. He doesn't look happy about it, but Aziraphale is impressed and enam… enameled. He's an angel. A cherub. A Renaissance masterpiece by a very gay artist. 

Crowley delivers soliloquies in the most boring tone of voice known to man. It's a tick, a compulsion. Aziraphale knows how those might feel, when he misses a night's sleep for the sake of a book he can't put down in any way, however much he tries. Enough of this. 

The point is that it's time Adam has learned about Crowley because Aziraphale would quite like Crowley to get along with Adam, since Crowley is …

Adam is sitting on the sofa and is reading. Aziraphale isn't sure if his five-year-old is quite ready for Jules Verne, especially for this whole taxonomic adventure that is  _ 20000 Leagues Under the Sea.  _ He's not even sure whether Adam can read. He surely hasn't taught him in the three years Adam has been living with him. Adam doesn't talk much. But Adam always seems to be reading every word his eyes catch on when they walk. Aziraphale loves living in London, however it's because he's learned to experience it mostly while he looks down. Otherwise all this city bustle is just a bit much on his fragile and brilliant mind. He's a bit like a romantic hero like that, or so he likes to think. 

Yet Adam seems to be reading. His lips don't move and he's apparently enjoying the critique of colonialist Britain seasoned with precise taxonomy. Aziraphale wonders if any of it is no longer accurate. Surely it must be. Aziraphale has to talk to Adam, so he coughs. 

"Yes, papa?" Adam says. Aziraphale chokes. 

"Papa?"

"You're not dad, but you're papa," Adam concludes and turns the page.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"I'm listening." Adam keeps reading. Aziraphale doesn't worry about it. The only eyes he can look at are Crowley's and since Crowley without his glasses is a bit of a mole or a sun-loving vampire who defies expectations - which is what Crowley does after all. 

Aziraphale thinks instead of talking. Then he talks. "I wish I could just share a memory with you. My words wouldn't do it any justice."

"You're good with words, papa, but I see what you mean. I'd love most of the hugs transferred to me via Bluetooth… Can't I have blue teeth?" He raises his head and scratches it. "Would be worrisome."

Adam doesn't like hugs and most people respect it, but Adam is also cute, so some find it necessary to hug him all the same. Brutes. 

"Warlock doesn't like hugs either," Adam informs. "Pepper says we're… neuro… neurodive? It's a long word. Mizana says that it takes most of her magic to say it."

Ana (Mizana) is a treasure, Aziraphale thinks yet again. Also, a mention of Warlock might help Aziraphale with his plight. 

"I've been… seeing Warlock's… uncle? Mr Crowley."

"I know your sight is fine," Adam says coolly. "Or do you mean you see him when he's not there? Pepper says it happens and is a sign of… the diving thing." 

Aziraphale tries to remember what Pepper's mother does for a living. He can't. But she might be a fully equipped goddess on a sabbatical. Aziraphale feels so lucky and soft that he can't say the word  _ neurodivergent _ either. It's alright, diving is good, is fitting. 

"See… I've been seeing him… I… We had lunches together and saw a play and a movie. I really like it when he's near me, close to me. I like it when you're close to me too! But with him it's… it's tingling. And I feel… alive and young and pretty. When he looks at me. When he holds my hand. He always asks before taking my hand. Our fingers fit well together. I just… You don't have to get along with him! But I know he won't hurt you and won't hug you without your consent."

"That's all I need to know," Adam says, eyes in the books. "I'll give him a chance."

"Thank you, dear boy. Would it… bother you if he touched me in front of you? If he held my hand?"

"You have two," Adam shrugs. "Although I don't understand why you need to hold his hand. You're both adults."

"To me, it feels good to hold his hand. I feel safe and wanted."

"I feel safe and wanted without all this… touching." Adam shrugs again.

"And it's up to you, my boy."

He sits on the sofa next to Adam. "You want me to read for you?"

"No. I'm good. I can read."

"I'm so proud of you."

"I'm proud of myself too."

The memory is this. 

They were sitting in front of each other, Crowley's mouth warm and inviting. Aziraphale had kissed that mouth. He felt it against his, he felt Crowley's hands on his shoulders and back. On his neck and behind his ears. On the tips of his hair. On the inside of his wrist. Sometimes he feels like he can sense Crowley inside him, squirming, sauntering and walking, snuggling there around Aziraphale's heart like an affectionate octopus. 

"I feel warm when you look at me," Crowley said quietly. 

"That would be the heating, my dear." Aziraphale giggled. 

"No, it's you. Even when it rains. Even if it's cold."

Crowley unraveled, unfurled, opened up from his sitting position and crouched next to Aziraphale, sitting on his haunches. "Every… emotionality charged relationship always has a waltz. A dance. Even in Tolstoy." Crowley closed his eyes, tortured obviously…

"Dearest, do you know Tolstoy by heart too?" Aziraphale touched Crowley's ear. Oh, what a beauty! His ears are so pretty! They are exquisite, like a conch. 

"Just the French." Crowley winced.

"That's at least half of it!"

"Tell me about it… No, the point is… the point I'm trying to make is… You make me warm, you charge me and would you please dance with me, because you're… you're my… no, to me… you… I'd love to dance with you, if you let me." He looked up at Aziraphale, warm, warm, warm, wiggly worm, so warm. 

"I'd love to dance with you, darling."

He picked up the watlz of flowers from  _ The Nutcracker _ . No one does yearning like Tchaikovsky. 

They danced quite akwardly, stepping on each others' toes and laughing. 

"Yes… yes, this is so good, angel," Crowley kept saying. "It's… very emotionally charged."

"It is, sweet darling. It is."

They kissed after the dance, because they weren't miserable buggers of Tolstoy or socially accepted Austen characters. They could kiss and kiss they would. 

"Hello, my darling. Adam decided to give you a chance."

"I'm honoured," Crowley says on the phone. 

"So… come for dinner, my sweet prince. Today, if you can."

"For you, I always can."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Here goes another one of my soft stories.

Aziraphale doesn't cook often. Not for fun. Not for the taste. He cooks for Adam, mindful of texture and vitamins and everything at once, so in the end he hates the taste of his cooking, but he'll cook for Crowley. That's the first sign. It's not a sign, no, it's an omen. It's hateful and scary. It's alright being alone and bitter and uninterested when there's no one around, but now Crowley is around, and for Crowley Aziraphale will make an effort, while being mindful of everything he tends to be mindful about. 

Crowley was kind enough to say he eats everything - and in his case it means Crowley hardly eats anything unless he's getting ready for a major competition, which he isn't at the moment, fortunately. Aziraphale cooks lemon and garlic pasta and some roasted vegetables. He's made a cheesecake too. It's a celebratory occasion after all. 

Adam observes Aziraphale. Aziraphale feels a bit judged. He's concentrated though and has no time for this shit. Any moment now Crowley is coming - speaking of, Aziraphale is getting increasingly hornier. He'd love to have Crowley squeezed between his thighs, to ride him and watch his face melt into pleasure and even more ridiculousness… Oh, and if Crowley becomes very serious when he's all… passionate and fucked hard, then it's even lovelier…

"The vegetables are burning," Adam says and leaves the kitchen. Smart boy. The kitchen is filled with smoke that smells of broken hearts and burnt carrots. 

They considered arranging for a playdate for Adam and Warlock, but then Harriet, Warlock's mother, said tiredly and clearly missing a glass of martini in her hand, that in case that Warlock comes to visit Adam, then the security will have to check Aziraphale's background and  _ the premises _ , and if Adam comes to visit Warlock, then there will be a background check and a thorough inspection of both Aziraphale and Adam once they arrive. Adam said he'd consider a picnic then. He had no qualms about the check of a park's background, but alas, it has been steadfastly raining all the time. Crowley has been coming (oh no, not again) over to Aziraphale's very wet and carrying some delicacy for his angel, protecting it with his body, not that Crowley has much of that, but Aziraphale would love to get acquainted - oh dear. Aziraphale must have inhaled too much burnt broccoli.

Crowley comes dressed impeccably and biting his lower lip. It must hurt and shouldn't be sexy but it is hopelessly sexy. Sexier than a Beethoven's symphony and a conductor fingering the air and the orchestra… Some nasty burnt vegetables have made their way into Aziraphale's system and no he can't think straight, not that he has ever been able to achieve such a state. 

The dinner is an uneventful affair. Crowley and Adam sniff and examine every bite as if the whole concept of food consumption were more than a bit alien to them. Aziraphale's idea of a polite and lovely dinner conversation goes down the drain. Crowley and Adam discuss the weather like a couple of old meteorologists using the words Aziraphale doesn't know and nodding to each other serenely. At least they are bonding, so it must be something. It has been the whole purpose of the enterprise after all, before Aziraphale started thinking about having Crowley's body between his thighs. 

Adam excuses himself from the table to go and take a bath. He's behaving like a knowledgeable senior citizen and Aziraphale is both grateful and guilty. 

Yet, the moment Adam leaves the room, Aziraphale grabs Crowley's hand. "I'm horny for you, darling, and you should kiss me!"

Oh, the shit they say about autistic people! Crowley, instead of diving for a kiss, of using this rare chance of snogging Aziraphale after being explicitly asked to do so, stummers and blushes. Aziraphale doesn't understand it!

"I never kissed before!" Crowley squeaks. 

"Oh dear. This is indecent."

Crowley is very good at putting Adam to bed and telling him a brilliant daytime story of his own making. There are shy dragons, easily distracted knights (there's a field of flowers involved and Crowley and Adam enjoy talking botanics for some time until Adam falls asleep).

You can't always have what you want, Aziraphale thinks. He hoped to spend the night riding Crowley, but instead he has to explain to Crowley what goes where. As far as Crowley is concerned nothing goes anywhere. He's horrified. He's had some idea of sex, he has, but when it's put to words, it's just a lot of words and embarrassment. He'd walk 500 miles for Aziraphale, sure, but being naked… 

They end up listening and dancing to the Allegro moderato of Beethoven's Seventh.

Now, Aziraphale has never done  _ that.  _ Crowley is a bad dancer but it's only if the music is intended for dancing. If he can sway with Aziraphale to some Beethoven, he's a fucking Baryshnikov. No, scratch that. 

He's an entire orchestra stuffed into one body, swaying with tension and unsaid feelings. He has no pretty words, but he makes Aziraphale feel each and every violin with the way he moves his hips. 

Aziraphale wakes up alone, tucked into his bed, warm and safe - but alone. He wonders about Crowley, and he wonders how this night has left him more - unbalanced, dazed, confused, infatuated, than what he had been expecting. It brings a smile to his sleepy lips. Crowley won't be treated like a wet dream, like a typical romance. He danced to Beethoven and he's ridiculous. Aziraphale doesn't want him any other way. 

He gets up and wakes up Adam who thankfully makes no comment. They set out on their usual walk to the daycare. Crowley is waiting by it with an umbrella. This is indeed the beginning of a wonderful… something. This is the beginning and in the beginning there was rain and a racewalk. And a bit of Beethoven. And some burnt vegetables. A few golden medals. Just a few of Aziraphale's favourite thing, in short. 


End file.
